Victory Speech
by Beta Gyre
Summary: Winning a presidential election warrants a celebration. In this case, it warrants a very specific type of celebration. M for good reason.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. I don't even have a campaign donor's quid pro quo claim on them.

**Author's Note and Warnings:** Yes, this is exactly what the description implies it is. It occurs in the same universe as my post-film headcanon fic "Three Blocks South" and refers to a few of the events of that story.

This story is rated M for sexual material and_ very _strong language, including a scene that is pretty much mild dom/sub, and one word that may be offensive to some (I don't think it is offensive in context here, but it's definitely strong).

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**Victory Speech**

* * *

The President smiled again, an exceedingly confident smile that bordered on being a cocky smirk, as he gave one final wave to the applauding crowd. He bent and hugged his daughter, then turned to his wife and—merely a moment after she brought her mind out of the pleasant fog it had been in—grabbed her tightly, planting a firm kiss on her lips in front of thousands. No, millions—for this moment was captured on national television.

In front of the nation, it seemed like forever, but it couldn't have been too long. Even now, even after being secure in four more years as President, even after the speech he had just given, he knew he had to maintain some semblance of what the media dubbed "gravitas," which apparently meant no public displays of passion. No acknowledgment of that aspect of humanness.

_Ah well, _Andrew Shepherd thought, leading his family and the vice president's family offstage, _there will be plenty of time for that later._

They separated when they reached election night headquarters in Milwaukee. It was not his private house—that, as it happened, was a rural residence, and so was infeasible for the night's requirements—but rather, it was a grand hotel that the campaign entourage had booked for the night. _They _had the best suite—the presidential suite, as the hotel appropriately dubbed it—and that was where they went when they arrived at the hotel.

It _was _a big place, with a separate private bedroom for Lucy, a large office, and a luxurious bathroom. The television in the sitting area was on, and A. J. was already parked on the sofa, channel-flipping to see the reaction to tonight's speech. Sydney caught a glimpse of Fox News, where a furious commentator was practically frothing at the mouth as he described it as "the swagger of a conqueror." The hyperbole brought a smirk to her face, and A. J. rolled his eyes at the screen.

Andy had made personal calls to longtime supporters and major donors earlier, but there were still some names left to call, and that might take a while. Meanwhile, Sydney was itching to try out that huge marble tub.

"Is there anyone else on the list that _I_ need to make a call to?" she asked him in the suite's office, hoping that the answer was no.

He scanned over the list and was about to speak, when Lewis Rothschild—_hyper-caffeinated Type A workaholic,_ Sydney thought briefly, shoving aside the thought that those terms could just as easily apply to herself—answered for him.

"Not unless you specifically want to call your former employer—"

"And give them your version of the speech I gave tonight," Andy cut in, chuckling.

She laughed. "As tempting as that is, I believe I will pass." She squeezed his shoulders affectionately and headed to the bathroom.

His victory speech really had been a doozy, she thought, once she was comfortably immersed in the hot, foamy, deep water. The media were bound to talk about it. The mainstream channels would certainly have a different reaction to it than the rigidly partisan commentators brought onto _that one _cable news channel, but the fact remained that it was quite different from the usual victory speech and strikingly different from the one he had given four years ago. There had been no conciliatory proclamations, no claims of wanting to work with the defeated opponent, and very little respect given to that opponent's supporters. Indeed, the _only _mark of respect that he had given to Rumson's voters was that they _had _voted, participating in the democratic process and doing that one civic duty. That was it.

Perhaps, she mused, he simply could not offer up any respect for people who would support the perpetrator of "the filthiest campaign in 100 years," as the media were calling it. That might also be a bit of hyperbole, a sentiment that he (political history buff that he was) had agreed with when she said it, but it _had _been a campaign full of personal attacks. There had been the false claim that their expected child had actually been conceived _rather _earlier than they said... the ugly insinuations that she was influencing his views and priorities through sexual extortion... the hypocritical, cynical attempts to whip up populist furor about lobbyists in general... the utterly despicable Internet rumor that she intended to have an abortion and claim it was a miscarriage to win sympathy votes... In the closing days, Rumson had sanctimoniously tried to play the "concern" card about their family, asserting that they couldn't do right by _the children _if they held such demanding jobs. That belated, insincere attempt to be "nice" had backfired badly among working mothers.

All in all, Sydney could not really blame her husband for, essentially, telling the people who had conducted and supported such a campaign to go to hell, let alone being (yes, she had to admit it) a bit arrogant in claiming victory over one who would use those tactics.

And a clear victory it was, too: fifty-three percent of the popular vote and an electoral vote landslide. He _might _have even carried her home state of Virginia; that was still unclear and would probably require a couple weeks of recounting ballots, but it was irrelevant in terms of the national outcome. Yes, he had _good _reason to be cocky.

She couldn't exactly say that was unappealing to her. In fact, it was rather the opposite. She leaned back in the tub and sank farther into the bubble-crested water, thinking over the events of the past few hours. The election had been called fairly early in the night, after a key state was declared for him. Champagne had been uncorked at campaign headquarters, though she was unwilling to have any due to her pregnancy. In the midst of that initial celebration, Andy had leaned over and abruptly given her a kiss, this one much deeper (and less acceptable to cameras, she thought wryly) than the one after the victory speech. No warning, no initial tenderness, just sudden, possessive intensity borne of the excitement of the moment. For that matter, the victory speech kiss itself had been as intense as such a one reasonably could be. She _had _expected that one, but that did not detract from her enjoyment of it.

She had also expected—well, _known _what he was going to say. She was not quite sure that "expected" was the proper term. There was a vast difference between reading that speech on paper and hearing him enunciate the words, confident and triumphant in his tone, occasionally glancing at her and meeting her eyes for a fraction of a second as he paused to let the crowd cheer. There had been a sparkle there, a knowing gleam, and even with the huge event of the day occupying her mind, she had managed to find room in her thoughts for desire and anticipation.

_Once he finishes the calls and those staffers get out of here._

He hardly seemed to care if they left obvious signs for his top, closest staffers to read, and in fact, Sydney was fairly sure that he was boasting on some level. She could not go that far herself, but she was no longer embarrassed to be seen in pajamas or a robe by those staffers. However, she certainly did _not _intend to allow anyone but him to see her in what she planned to have on tonight, and she wanted his first view of her to be in _that, _rather than modest flannel pajamas.

At last she heard the long-awaited knock on the door. She had settled into a very pleasant state of relaxation yet anticipation, leaning against one side of the tub and half-floating in the remaining foam of bubbles, and the sound startled her. Water sloshed around as she was brought back to the present moment.

"You haven't fallen asleep in there, have you?" Andy called through the door.

"No!" she exclaimed. "I've been waiting for you to finish. Are they gone?"

A chuckle. "Yes, they're gone. Lewis didn't want to leave until I explained that you were probably waiting for me. He finally got the message."

Sydney let the marble tub begin to drain. She felt her face flush with color. "You're terrible to him," she scolded. "Implicitly bragging to him about—_us._ He works too hard to have a relationship with a woman. It's mean, what you do."

He snorted. _"He_ works too hard? What about us, then?" He paused, and even though the door was between them, Sydney just knew there was a smirk on his face. "His problem is exactly what yours used to be. It isn't that he doesn't have time for a relationship, but that he won't _make _time for it because he's _nervous_ about the idea. And yes, I tweak him. It's quite easy to do... but enough about him. When are you going to be ready?"

She dried herself off. "I'll be ready when I'm ready. Patience."

In truth, she was just as eager as he evidently was, but over the past minute or so, the idea had entered her mind to torment him a little. That confident, almost arrogant tone in his voice was simply inviting it. And in any case, the longer _she _could draw this out, the better for both of them...

She spritzed her evening fragrance on the appropriate places, brushed through her hair, and slipped into the new negligee and matching underwear that she had bought for this very occasion. He had not yet seen it—did not know she had such an item, as far as she was aware. Dark green, thigh-length, silky and edged with delicate lace, it was _not _a piece for sleeping in. She looked herself over in the tall mirror. The color really flattered her. The shape... well, she thought philosophically, at least the bump near her waist was supposed to be there, and he found it attractive, considering what it was.

She opened the door sharply and found herself face to face with him. He was still fully dressed in the suit he had worn at his speech, and he held a glass a third full of red wine, which he almost spilled as the door opened so suddenly. His eyes grew wide as he gaped at her.

"Um... wow," he said, articulation momentarily failing him.

She smirked. "You like it?"

He was still staring wide-eyed at her.

"It is very flattering to know that I've rendered the—how did they put it?—'swaggering conqueror' speechless," she said saucily.

He drank the rest of the wine in one swallow and set the glass down on the nearest table. "Only for a moment," he said, a grin reappearing on his face.

He was _too _desirable, standing there like that, still every inch the victorious president he had been all night long. She couldn't wait any longer. "I bet more than a moment," she blurted, launching herself at him.

He was almost knocked off balance, but he quickly righted himself and embraced her tightly as she pressed herself against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and began to plant kisses on his face, his jaw, close to his ear. He quickly wanted more than she was giving and, with one hand gently tilting her head, met her lips with his own. She felt his tongue force its way into the caverns of her mouth, and as he plundered her, she tasted the wine he'd just had.

"I... have wanted you to myself all evening... ever since they declared it..." she murmured, barely pulling away from the intense kiss.

Her prediction was correct: He could not respond to this moment in words. The best he could do was murmur in approval and seal her lips with his once more.

They made their way across the small dressing area and into their bedroom, somewhat clumsily. She was acutely aware of the pressure of his hands through the thin fabric of her nightgown—and the growing pressure against her belly from his erection straining against his pants—but at the same time, she was doing her best to steer them both towards the bed. It certainly wouldn't do for them to bump into something painful and have it spoil the mood.

He moved his lips away from hers, trailing light kisses across her face before suddenly enclosing her earlobe between his lips and gently sucking on it. That prompted an involuntary hiss from her. The tingle was so pleasurable, sending shivers over her whole body, that her embrace of him loosened and her arms fell away from him. Neither of them was able to control or even think of where they might be shuffling. They stood in place, locked together to remain steady, as he ministered to her.

The back of his legs suddenly brushed against the bedside, bringing him back to himself. She continued to lean into him, trying to push him backward onto the mattress while maintaining their closeness. "Down," she urged.

He broke away from her entirely, pushing her back a little. "I don't think so," he murmured. He dropped his hands to rest on her waist and held her aside from him by a few inches.

She looked up at him, confused. "What do you—"

He interrupted before she could finish the question. A single eyebrow went up. "I mean that _you _didn't just win almost 400 electoral votes. This is _my _night," he said, smirking outright.

She gazed at him, understanding dawning. The corners of her lips began to tug upward too.

"So... _you _get on the bed. And watch me." His tone brooked no argument.

For a moment she stared back challengingly at him. She was feisty by nature, which he liked. But this _was _a special occasion... and she really had no objection to it, after all. She sat down on the bed and leaned back against the extremely squishy hotel pillows, feeling her negligee ride up her legs and feeling much more exposed as it did.

He looked at her for a minute, his gaze traveling over her body and taking in each part of her with approval. His eyes landed on her belly, and at that, the cocky gleam in them faded to something more tender. The corners of his mouth tugged slightly upward in a genuine smile. Without a word, for none was necessary, he bent down and placed a gentle hand there, caressing her lightly.

He did things like that frequently, little caresses and kisses to her pregnant belly that always brought a warm feeling to her. Sydney knew that he had wanted it very much, but at the same time, he knew what it meant for a woman to carry a pregnancy—what sorts of stresses and discomforts might surface from time to time. It was especially the case for a forty-year-old, as she was. It touched him that she would do it for him despite those concerns, and he frequently acknowledged that with tender gestures like this one.

He drew back from her. His warm smile quickly reverted to that familiar knowing smirk, as he continued to look her over and his thoughts apparently turned back to a less tender and more lustful direction. If she had felt rather exposed before, she felt completely so now. She was absolutely certain that he was imagining her without anything on, not even this small piece. She couldn't help it; she squirmed and looked away from his gaze. Her breaths quickened. _He really needs to get on with it,_ she thought, though she was aware that he was doing this on purpose.

At last, when he seemed pleased with the results this ogling had produced, he proceeded to remove his clothes. The jacket was off first, then ever so deliberately he unknotted his tie and drew it from around his collar. Slowly, piece by piece, he took the pieces of his suit off.

He struggled when he reached his pants. The belt came undone easily enough, but he found himself having difficulty with the zipper—and, Sydney noted with great amusement, the bulge behind it. He scowled as he pulled at them, well aware that the suave seduction act he had been putting on for her was dashed with this development.

A snort escaped her mouth as he finally got the zipper down, freeing the bulge from the first of its confines. "Hail to the chief," she snarked.

His head shot up. His eyes met hers, and something flashed in them. "So that's what you want to call it? Works for me," he shot back.

His pants and boxers came off. She gazed at his erection quickly before he was upon her. His mouth instantly took possession of the sensitive area around her jawline and his hands took hold of the bottom hemline of her negligee, making short work of removing it from her. She was almost completely exposed to him. He pulled back from her and tossed the garment to the floor, then climbed off her and lay on his side facing her.

He was looking into her eyes silently, some idea obviously taking root, though she could not guess what. The corners of his mouth turned slightly upward.

"Since you regard it as the 'chief,'" he drawled, "I think you really ought to... pay your respects to it. Don't you?"

Her eyes widened more at the way he had phrased this request than at the request itself. Still, she managed a bit of defiance. "I think I'll do just that in short order, if you'll ever get on with this."

He laughed softly. "You know very well that's not what I mean. No K Street dissembling tonight, darling." Propping himself up with one arm, he took one of her hands with his other and placed it on his cock. "Stroke it."

She was flushing with heat, embarrassed at being seen through so easily. Still, she wanted to please him, especially tonight. _Her husband _had just been given a vote of confidence by millions of people to be leader of the free world. It was especially satisfying that the vote of confidence was for her as well, since it had been his relationship with her that had formerly decreased the support of some of those people. He—or they—had even won over some people who either had voted against him in his first election or hadn't voted at all. It was a huge deal, and she understood perfectly why he was in the state of mind that he was.

She placed her other hand on his cock and began to stroke it, slowly and teasing at first, keeping watch on how he was responding to her ministrations. He was trying to keep control, but he could not control the responses that she produced on his face. _That _was pleasing to watch. It never ceased to thrill her that she, of all the people that he could have met through his position, _she _was the one he had chosen, and _she _could do this to him...

He groaned as she ran a finger lightly over a prominent vein. That was apparently all that he could take—or feel confident that he could stand while still keeping some control over himself. He reached for her hands and moved them away. She wondered what he was going to do next, but not for long. Quickly he leaned over for a full-mouth kiss. His hands reached for her hips and tugged down the thin undergarment that she still wore. Bending her knees in, she helped him get it off, and it joined the pile of clothes on the floor.

He broke away from the kiss and looked her over, side by side with her, both of them fully naked before each other. His eyes were absolutely smoldering in the dim light of the hotel room, his pupils wide and dark. It was intoxicating, and her flurry of thoughts about the night's events, his sweeping victory, and his borderline arrogant victory speech, only intensified her desire. She wanted him and wanted him _now._ Her center was actually starting to throb for him, once open and vulnerable before him—and _he _had been the one who had just been teased and left incomplete! How could he maintain control of himself like this?

She did not have the chance to ask him, and the point quickly became moot, for whatever strand of control he was clinging to suddenly snapped. He rolled over on top of her and pinned her to the bed, provoking a gasp from her. He took her wrists in his left hand and held them above her head. His right hand shot between her legs, and two of his fingers probed into her center. He hissed in approval.

"_Damn,_ your cunt is wet," he growled next to her ear.

A sharp thrill coursed over her body, but she stilled it almost as quickly as it happened and _hoped _that she hadn't done anything to betray it to him. She forced a glare onto her face. She had _never _heard that word from him before... and the thought crossed her mind that he deserved a smack on the cheek for it, not because it actually _angered _her, but because... just because, she decided. But her arms were still pinned, and though she struggled momentarily, she could not free them.

He laughed softly at her vain attempts and the look of outrage that she was deliberately—apparently _too _obviously deliberately—forcing on her features. "There's no point, you know," he said. "I could tell it didn't really bother you." He slid his fingers deeper into her. "Tell me what you want," he whispered.

She gave up the futile pretense without a fight. She _did _want him and she was not inclined to delay having him, _all _of him, by feigning indignation over his behavior tonight. "Make love to me, Andy," she whispered back.

He withdrew his fingers and trailed them up her body to her hip. His hand rested there. He seemed to hesitate a moment, as if considering a decision, before releasing her wrists and moving his now free hand to her other hip. She felt the tip of him at her entrance, but he did not push forward. Instead he remained there, looking into her eyes, amusement spreading over his face by the moment.

"Are you _ever_ going to—" she burst out, but he broke in before she could finish.

"There was a time," he said, one eyebrow edging upward, "when I insisted that you call me by my name, rather than... something else that you were calling me." He spoke with a deliberate, faux-contemplative slowness that she recognized as the tone he used when he was utterly certain of himself—and of the inevitability of his persuading someone to agree with him. It was, in fact, the tone he had used the night they had first become lovers, she remembered. "It was because I wanted you to think of me as a person. You do now... and since I know you do, and in light of the fact that tonight is what it is, I want you to call me 'Mr. President.'"

She had not actually been shocked at anything he had said or done tonight, not really even the _word,_ but that request—if "request" was the proper term—_did _shock her. "Those commentators were _right,"_ she said. "You _are _full of yourself."

"I have a perfect right to be." He pushed forward a little bit, sliding a little bit into her, just enough to torture. "Say it."

Again, she wanted him too much to argue. "Then take me, Mr. President," she gasped out.

He smiled cockily. "I will." And then finally, _finally,_ he pushed all the way forward, filling her.

At last she felt some of the satisfaction that she had been longing for all evening. When he began to move, sending shudders of pleasure through her, her satisfaction at being filled started to slip away to be replaced by an intense, desperate need for more. For everything.

"Harder," she urged him. With a smile, he obliged. His thrusts became so intense that she felt herself approaching climax, which she knew, somehow, in the fog of her thoughts, to be too soon. She gasped and reached for his back, digging her nails into him to try to dissipate some of the tension. His eyes opened wide and he let go of one of her hips to reach for her arms again. Once more they were lifted above her head, simultaneously depriving her of this means of release and actually intensifying the waves breaking over her, as the awareness of his power—now manifested as strength—filled her mind.

She tried another method of relief, drawing up her legs and wrapping them around his waist. That was all right with him, and it even prompted a moan of approval. They were both almost beyond speech at this point, barreling rapidly toward their respective releases.

Hers hit first. As it broke over her, she inadvertently jerked her hands loose from his grip—or perhaps he was just too close himself to hold them any longer. The hand that had been holding them shifted to her shoulder, clenching tightly and powerfully. An inarticulate cry escaped her. Vaguely recalling what he wished her to say, she reached for his back, this time only wrapping her arms around him, and gasped out, "Oh—_Mr._ President!"

His request apparently had not been simply to please his own ego this special evening. As soon as she had uttered the words, his grip on her shoulder and hip tightened, his eyes squeezed shut, and he pushed into her ferociously as he had his release.

They clung together, shaking, as the waves shuddered over their entwined bodies. He buried his head in the crook of her neck, the "powerful leader of the free world" persona that he had been displaying almost all evening now just as shattered as they themselves were. –Or perhaps, she thought as she ran her fingers through his hair, he knew that it was all right for them to show a vulnerable side to each other.

They lay like that, wrapped together and breaths heaving, until he lifted his head up and gazed lovingly at her. She smiled, and before he could do what she expected him to do, she beat him to it, pulling him down for a final kiss of the night. It lasted a long time, but finally they both drew back from it. He rolled off her, pulled the bedcovers back and out from under them, and then carelessly threw them on top of their sated bodies. He gently turned her on her side—she realized it quickly and rolled with him—and curled against her, wrapping an arm around her.

"Oh, congratulations, by the way," she murmured.

Finally, he was the one to be surprised by something. He laughed and squeezed her affectionately. She closed her eyes and felt him nuzzle the top of her head, placing a soft peck there before dozing off himself. It had been a long day, really—a long past eight or nine months—and with the day's victory, there would be a very busy four years ahead for them. But it was what they had both wanted, and they could not be happier to face it with each other.


End file.
